Passive Acceptance
by Reactionary Response
Summary: "Her hour is up-not that she needs a psychiatrist to tell her any of this anyway. Her own mind absorbs all these minute details, catalogs and files them, and then pulls them out when useful. Slicking back his hair, checking his tie, making sure Ray is outside when he works too late, taking care of Mike. These are all expressions of love."
The couch sinks in the middle. She notices the slant like she does a thousand other minute details in the span of a minute. The cream colored walls need a fresh coat of paint, the chairs are all austere, and the whole place-despite some of its flaws-feels homey. Donna understands why Harvey would choose to come back here. Paula Agard creates a space that feels both rich and yet conventional. As if she's just stopped by for some tea with a friend and not a counseling session.

"So, you really can do that." Dr. Agard says, but Donna knows it's really a question.

"I really can."

 _How_ flits across the wrinkle in the good doctor's forehead, but it's erased quickly. They both know that _hows_ and _whys_ are silly in psychotherapy. It's the _whats_ and the _whos_ they have to worry about.

"Can you ever forgive him?" Agard asks.

Donna pauses. Her anger is a cold thing, slithering along under her skin without any real malice. She acknowledged and made peace with it as soon as it made its presence known. Someone else pulling it out so quickly heats it. Donna remembers the first moment of realization. _She loves Harvey Specter._ Seven years and six months into their partnership, he finishes a single sentence and she realizes just as she adjusts his tie. They work-though they'll never be together. That's it. One, two, three. They work. She loves him. They will never have a relationship. He has issues and she won't ask for more than he can give. So Donna sits on her love until it morphs into something else. Anger and bitterness and cynicism that burns red to match her hair. She bonds with her anger like that, accepting it as a part of herself or like a genetic curiosity she can't change. Then it doesn't matter anymore. It just is.

"I should."

She looks out over Agard's desk. Stacks of files sit in neat piles. The doctor is meticulous, but feminine. She uses eggshell parchment paper that's see-through in the lamp light. Meaning that while the couch sinks, everything is strategically comfortable. Agard paid to arrange her practice this way. They are not friends. She does not know Harvey better than Donna.

"But you won't."

"No."

"Why not?"

Apparently, Donna gets a free session. She's the one chance Agard has to unravel more of Harvey and, just like every other woman in his life, she can't resist the opportunity. Donna understands. She made the same choice so many years ago. There was the Harvey in her bedroom, whip cream trailing down his stomach, and the one who used to drink scotch alone in his office. He chose to share his McClellan with her. She clinked her glass against his.

They are a pair. They work. They love each other. Donna believes all of this with the same conviction that she believes in her own voice. It's a simple fact that she breathes in with thousand other ones.

"Because that would mean acceptance."

"And acceptance means letting him go?" Agard asks.

Donna smiles and stands. Her hour is up-not that she needs a psychiatrist to tell her any of this anyway. Her own mind absorbs all these minute details, catalogs and files them, and then pulls them out when useful. Slicking back his hair, checking his tie, making sure Ray is outside when he works too late, taking care of Mike. These are all expressions of love. He doesn't say thank you and she doesn't ask for more. It's not good enough, it's _never_ been good enough.

She is thirty-seven, unmarried, and has a job as a secretary. No matter how anyone dresses up her title or fills in the minutiae, Donna accepts the reality. She allows it to be okay everyday, because they are ridiculous together. Both of them stumble towards a finish line they will never reach. Harvey is so much more than the man she loves. More importantly, _she_ is more. All those details, so conscientiously cared for all add up to Donna Paulsen.

"It's too late for that."

Her purse thumps against her thigh as she walks out the door.

* * *

 **Just a little drabble that I needed to get off my chest to deal with the mid-season finale.**


End file.
